


nothing but this, intensified

by karples



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Not of the Main Ship), Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, F/F, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pre-Series World-Building, Takes Place Immediately After S7E3, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-23 05:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karples/pseuds/karples
Summary: When the Syntian nitrate blooms before her like a familiar, magnificent flower, Ezor reaches for Zethrid, thinking: You promised.(Ezor and Zethrid, from the beginning to the not-end.)





	nothing but this, intensified

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Great Google Drive Migration.
> 
> Title from [Poem](https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/poem-by-frank-ohara-1926-66-l8b3bfd5n98) by Frank O'Hara.

Trust is a jealously rationed resource in space. Inasmuch as you can never determine another being’s intentions with certainty, you must assume that no one other than yourself means well.

Ezor understood this, once. She had been the source of this fear in others. But when the Syntian nitrate blooms before her like a familiar, magnificent flower, Ezor reaches for Zethrid, thinking: You promised.

<< REWIND <<

Ezor grew up on a planet held in high regard by the Galra. She was descended on one side from her birth planet’s non-Galran upper middle class, which had fought against Voltron loyalists, Altean allies, and local guerilla rebels at the start of the Ten Thousand Year War. As a result, she grew up with many privileges, such as full citizenship, unrestricted movement throughout the empire, superior instruction, and a chance to prove herself in a military leadership position. There, she caught the attention of Prince Lotor and was immediately recruited for his next crusade following a bizarre informal interview. 

At the time, Acxa was captain of the squadron to which Ezor and Narti--whose origins were just as mysterious as her symbiotically bonded creature, Kova--were assigned as lieutenants. Brimming with curiosity, Ezor peppered Narti with questions for the next several phoebs--“So, does Kova control you or do you control Kova? What part of you is Narti and what part’s Kova? Is Kova your brain? Are you _ Kova’s _ brains?”--and went ignored. 

Ezor was mightily impressed. She could appreciate commitment. More than that, she could appreciate safeguarding any potential weaknesses from untrustworthy strangers. Still she continued to entertain one-sided conversations with Narti, her endless stream of chatter occasionally interrupted by Narti’s telepathic messages:

“Oooh, wow, that’s ticklish!” Ezor had exclaimed the first time that Narti reached out to warn her of an impending ambush. Quickly Ezor learned to tolerate that cautious, ghost-like psychic touch, even to anticipate it. In fact, Ezor became so good at anticipating it that when Zethrid finally joined them, she knew Narti would whisper:

“The new one is watching you.”

“Hmmm, is that so?” Ezor twirled her brightly striped flagellum around her finger. Kova blinked unsympathetic jewel-toned eyes at her. If Ezor were much smaller, Kova would probably eat her. “Well, I think I’m watching her too.”

\--

Unlike Acxa, Narti, and Ezor, Zethrid was conspicuous, undiplomatic, and honest. She had originated in warlord Ranveig’s fleet, a fact which inspired awe and fear among Lotor’s army. Egos were bloated from their recent slew of victories, but it took one punch from Zethrid to remind all that, in space, there would always be someone stronger, deadlier, and more enduring.

To Ezor’s surprise, Zethrid seemed to respect the chain of command and never once disobeyed Acxa’s orders. When accosted by Ezor, Zethrid explained: “She doesn’t give bad orders. I like ’em, so I go with ’em.”

“Oooh, that’s new. Is that why you ditched Ranveig for the pleasure of our company?”

For that, Ezor earned a grumble of annoyance, accompanied by a scowl that made her feel like she had let Zethrid down.

“Nah, I just didn’t respect him.”

Zethrid’s peculiar response delighted and unsettled Ezor. Galran military personalities could be so awfully boring, all Vrepit Sa this, Vrepit Sa that. Zethrid’s answer also led Ezor to conclude that Zethrid was so strong--or at least, Zethrid felt that she was so strong--that she could disparage or ignore the orders of superior officers if they displeased her.

As substantiated in battle, Zethrid’s capacity for violence wasn’t exaggerated by rumor, so maybe her confidence wasn’t unfounded. Yet Ezor felt that there was more to it than power. Ranveig was powerful but didn’t command Zethrid’s respect. Meanwhile, Lotor and Acxa did. 

Ezor wanted that. If she could earn it or, barring that, understand it, then she could use it. She understood Narti’s utilitarianism. To a lesser degree, she understood Acxa’s insistence on honor and discipline; they were, after all, representing Lotor and his vision of the Galran empire, and it was important not to besmirch His Highness’s image. 

But beneath it all ran a current of fear, which Ezor understood as the organizing principle of the universe.

In the next few decaphoebs, Ezor would discover that the line between fear and respect was thinner than the finest surgical laser. What was most important was how you walked it.

\--

After a brutal, prolonged series of skirmishes, Ezor, Narti, and Zethrid were promoted to captains of their own squadrons for their outstanding performances. Ezor couldn’t stop grinning. She was so proud. She made sure to compliment Zethrid on her merciless destruction of two enemy cruisers: Leaping from her ship, Zethrid had punctured the hulls of the cruisers bare-handed, sending them plummeting full-tilt toward the terrain far below. 

“Yeah, that wasn’t my idea,” Zethrid admitted. “Stole it from this combatant from the other side of the civil war in my mother’s home system. Killed him, of course, but credit where credit’s due.”

“Huh. I was wondering about that, like, if your fighting tactics came from your mother’s people. They’re pretty effective!”

“I try to do ‘em justice,” said Zethrid modestly. “You know the story of my mother’s system?”

“I love stories,” said Ezor, to indicate that she was unaware of it. She did actually love stories, or rather, she loved listening to them. They were a painless method of information extraction, revealing much about the teller’s beliefs, prejudices, and personality, and Ezor exploited it whenever possible.

“Well, the story’s that we’ve been at war since we rose from the rock of our home planet--our original planet. Then we tore it apart and scattered it as we fought, and that’s why our home system’s just an asteroid belt.”

“That’s pretty bad-ass,” said Ezor admiringly. In exchange, she considered her options and offered, “I don’t really know if my home planet has a _ story_-story, ‘cause the Galra came and the old stuff got wiped out. But we like to joke that the world was too peaceful, so we showed up to sow chaos and conflict, both of which we know makes life more interesting.”

Zethrid guffawed. “Damn, that’s evil.”

“Well, yeah, but we’re evil.”

“Guess so.” Zethrid folded her huge arms, not in defensiveness but in unselfconscious reflection. Ezor found her body language adorable and easy to read, without pretense. Maybe that was the side-effect of being able to rend steel like thin fabric: You were less afraid of what people could learn about you. “I like breaking things. Easier than fixing, you know? But that’s what made Ranveig such a loser. With his attitude you end up with a solar system that’s just asteroids.” 

“Oooor you end up with Daibazaal.”

Zethrid shrugged a plated shoulder. “Anyway, that’s why I’m with Prince Lotor. I break things he needs me to break. He’s the one who goes in to teach ‘em how to build again. Again, and again, and again. The way he wants ‘em to build it. As many times as it takes until they love him and won’t talk behind his back.”

Ezor’s fascination grew stronger. She didn’t think that Zethrid would ever criticize Lotor and wondered if Zethrid knew that she was describing herself. “You know, that’s kind of a sweet and twisted thing to say.”

“Aww, really?” Zethrid laughed. “I’m just with the guy that everybody secretly wants to work for. Do a good job, and the prince rewards you.” She tapped her captain’s insignia, bright on her breast like a prize or a bribe handed out. Ezor realized that this tactic had worked on her as well, but she was too elated to care. “Do a good job in Ranveig’s fleet, and he gets so scared he cuts you down.”

\--

When they weren’t murdering or causing mischief and general mayhem, Ezor and Zethrid ate together. A traditional Galran diet consisted almost entirely of meat from Daibazaal’s native arthropods--hence, the canines--but since the rise of the Galran empire they enjoyed a diversification of cuisine.

Ezor had never gone hungry in her life and wasted much of what they ordered. On the other hand, Zethrid ate like each meal would be her last--not that it stopped her from filling Ezor's plate. 

More interesting than Zethrid’s latent caretaking instincts, however, was the way that Zethrid ate. She speared meat with the tips of her claws and cleaned her fingers with her dark tongue. When her lip hitched over a tooth, or when she picked at something caught between her teeth, she revealed the crenated line of her gums, the same color as a bruise. 

Ezor became very familiar with what Zethrid’s mouth could do, such as tearing, chewing, and eviscerating. But every gesture also seemed kind of graceful and purposeful, and the strange stirrings that it caused in Ezor’s chest perplexed her.

“I don’t know anyone stronger than you, you know,” Ezor told Zethrid one day, over a table of popular Reiphodan dishes. Ezor had been planning to share this thought with Zethrid for a while. It felt risky and daring, brightly disclosing that she was a part of that anyone. 

Of course, there was always the possibility that Zethrid would overlook the implications. Ezor liked her chances. She could usually count on Zethrid to leave the underneath-the-underneath alone, though Zethrid was much more perceptive than others assumed. Decaphoebs of civil war had left an indelible mark on her, more secret and interior than a scar. 

Zethrid snorted, amused. “No, _ you’re _ the strong one,” she countered, reaching for a slice of a green-tinted meat. According to the chef, it came from the flank of an endangered quadruped. “You don’t need anyone, do you?”

For once, Ezor had no idea where to start. She laughed nervously. “Er, do I? Do you?”

Zethrid’s eyes glinted. She must have been in one of her rare patient moods, taking her time with the flank instead of answering. The wait felt unbearable, because Ezor was worried, though not about her usual concerns, like if she was going to die in the next territorial scuffle or if she'd gotten on Acxa's bad side. This silence seemed dire for reasons unrelated to life outcomes.

“I mean, you’re just so _ you_,” Ezor blurted. “You’re the only one I know who doesn’t care what others think.”

What Ezor meant and should have said was: You’re not afraid of what others think. Not often did Ezor stumble and miss her mark, so she lost a tick or two to confusion. Was their meal poisoned? Why had her characteristic wit failed her?

Ears perked in surprise, Zethrid set down her food. “That’s not true.”

“Oh. It’s not?” Ezor echoed.

“I care about what you think.”

They stared at each other over shining platters of expensive, painstakingly prepared delicacies, the air thick with the savory scent of sauces. Ezor’s two hearts beat asynchronously, as if caught in the tumult of battle.

Then Zethrid broke the tension by looking away. As Ezor had learned, Zethrid could be unbearably generous.

“I’m always thinking about what you think.”

\--

Born to zealous social climbers who needed an heir to secure political capital, Ezor was familiar with the capriciousness of favor, of _ liking_. Too often security led to arrogance and then to downfall.

Being aware of this fact did not render Ezor immune to complacency. Sheltering in the shadow of powerful figures like Lotor fed both her insecurity and ego. One dobosh, Ezor was certain that she was irreplaceable. The next--perhaps a younger, swifter, more astute substitute would appear. The next after that--no, Ezor was untouchable.

And then the next: Lotor slew Narti and marooned the remainder of his generals on a meteorite in the middle of a remote quadrant to die.

Of course, killing them wouldn’t be so easy. Conversely, dying wouldn’t be so easy, either. They had all struggled and slaughtered and scrabbled toward the light to survive. Which one could lie down and pass in her sleep? Death, like life, would only be a protracted, painful process. 

Popular tavern tales often featured space-stranded crewmates eating one another in desperation. In such a situation, anyone could emerge the victor. They knew each others’ strengths and weaknesses too well.

Acxa spent the first Spicolian movement guarding the cave entrance of their camp, scanning the sea of stars. Meanwhile, Zethrid hunted what little game she could find. Ezor scouted the terrain. At the end of a quintant, the limits of which they set arbitrarily, they reconvened around the phosphorescent light which they kept alive in a pit.

It was during the second Spicolian movement that Acxa announced, gravely, “Voltron was right.”

Those words portended nothing good. Zethrid lifted her heavy head. Her eyes seemed tired but as grounded as ever. “‘Bout what?” Zethrid rumbled.

“About the quintessence?” Ezor guessed. “Like, what it would... do to Lotor, or something.”

“Or bring out in Lotor,” Acxa said. Something in her tone made the transparent sensory filaments on the back of Ezor’s neck rise. “Quintessence is... It doesn’t work on what’s not already present. All along, we were simply his stepping stones.”

Bathed in the green glow, Zethrid and Acxa’s faces looked grim and transformed. The Sincline team had used phosphorescence before, during previous skirmishes--but Narti had been there, too, huddled beside Ezor in the circle. And never far behind was Lotor, wild-haired and triumphant, full of praise.

“Oh please, like we didn’t see it coming!” Ezor burst out, made impatient and bitter by the silence. “Why would Lotor be any different than anyone else? Like, why should he?”

No one said: Because we believed in him. Yet it was true nonetheless. And if the linchpin of their union, the object of their loyalties, could betray them to the vagaries of fate, then what was left that had remained unchanged?

At last Acxa said, “I don’t know. I just know that I don’t trust the empire, anymore. Perhaps... perhaps I never should have.”

Instantly, Ezor knew where the conversation would go. Dread suffused her body, a numbness so subtle and insidious that it nearly escaped her notice. 

“Um, hello, nobody trusts the empire,” Ezor said, trying to not sound accusatory. “You’re scared of the empire. We’re scared of the empire. Everyone in the empire is scared of the empire! It kiiiiind of runs on fear? Besides, you built it too. Maybe more than the rest of us did!”

Ezor was right, of course. But Acxa merely said, “What’s done is done. What matters is what we do next.”

Zethrid glanced between Ezor and Acxa. The vertical wrinkle in her brow seemed unfathomably deep. “Hang on, what’s this have to do with Voltron?”

Ezor folded her arms and refused to elaborate. 

“Do you remember,” said Acxa, in her unhurried, unshaken manner, “how much we believed in Lotor? How much we wanted it to be as he dreamed it would be, how long ago we started our labors? And, in the end, how far we strayed?”

Zethrid grunted.

“I understand, now, that the empire can’t be changed. It is a machine; we are organic. We are the ones who have changed. In fact, we are the only ones who _ can _ change.” Reflective, Acxa laced her fingers together and rested her elbows on her knees. “I don’t wish to return to the empire. I don’t wish for a repeat of what happened to Lotor. And, frankly, I don’t believe that we would be welcomed back.”

Shadows flickered on the cave wall as Ezor sprung up, agitated. While arguing, her parents had always used height to their respective advantages, and Ezor was nothing if not a product of their joint education. 

Without raising her chin, Acxa lifted her gaze.

“You want to join Voltron, don’t you?” Ezor said.

“No, I want _ us _ to join Voltron. I think cooperating with them is our only way forward.”

“Okay, I mean, sounds great in theory--except for the part where we maybe tried to kill them! Or at least, Zethrid and I tried,” Ezor admitted. “More than once, even! If I were them, I wouldn’t get over it so easily. How do you know they’ll accept us? How do you know they’ll be different? Actually, did they even survive the rift?”

“Do you trust my judgement?” Acxa said instead.

“What? Why does it matter?” One phoeb ago, Ezor might have been able to answer yes with a clear conscience. Now, her hesitation gave her away. Trapped, she cried out, “Trust wasn’t what brought us together in the first place!” 

As usual, Acxa’s expression betrayed little of her thoughts. Turning to Zethrid, Acxa asked: “And you?”

Ezor braced herself for the blow. Lately she hadn’t spent a lot of time with Zethrid, leaving her only potential alliance untended. What power did Ezor command over fear, a shard of which Ezor still carried in her heart for Acxa, Voltron, and the Galran empire? What did Zethrid carry in hers, and where did Ezor fall?

For her part, Zethrid shrugged and scratched her nose, impervious to the rising tension. “Spell it out for me, ‘cause I don’t get it. How come it has to be Voltron?”

“The Voltron Coalition is currently the most well-organized force challenging the empire,” Acxa reasoned. “Were the empire to hunt us, the Voltron Coalition and Altean allies would be our best defense.”

“Well, Altea was an empire, too,” Zethrid pointed out. “If someone’s royal, someone else’s got to be a peasant, right? Sure, Altea’s like, a cloud of cosmic dust. But what if they want to start over? We’d be pawns again. Or first up on the chopping block. Going to the good guys isn’t a bad idea--but we’re bad, Acxa.”

Zethrid’s eyes sought Ezor’s across the firepit, striking something brittle inside of Ezor. It seemed to ring over and over, almost sweetly, like a bell.

“So, we’ve done some real bad stuff. There’s no undoing any of that.”

The pressure in the cave built up such that Ezor prepared herself for a physical altercation. Then Acxa stood and strode to the mouth of the cave, a most dignified retreat.

Taken aback, Ezor called, “Wait, where are you going?”

Acxa’s reply was curt and uninformative. “Nowhere. Where else can I go?”

Watching Acxa’s figure shrink in the distance, Ezor wondered whether Acxa would betray them more thoroughly than even Lotor could. After all, there were bounties on their heads, and Galran military personalities whom they had slighted, and Haggar, the witch. Stripped of their resources, Ezor and Zethrid were without recourse.

Yet they had a chance. Within reach lay Ezor’s sniper rifle, bound in rough cloth. If Ezor wanted to, she could rid them of the complicated, unsecured variable that was Acxa. 

However, Acxa had managed to sow in Ezor a seed of doubt, the smallest, most poisonous molecule of uncertainty: Why did Acxa show her back, a perfect target, to those whom she distrusted? 

What was the purpose of such a demonstration? Was it strength? Was it conviction?

Ezor trembled.

Almost brusquely, Zethrid caught Ezor by the shoulder. Those killers’ hands could reduce sophisticated war machines to scrap metal in a heartbeat, but they embraced Ezor instead, like a binding or a pact, pushing away the rest of the intrusive world.

“What if she comes after us?” Ezor pressed her cheek to Zethrid’s breastplate, cold to the touch. “What if Lotor comes back? What if Voltron comes to kill us? What if the empire--”

From Zethrid’s rib cage rose the resonant, reassuring instrument of her voice. “Space is big, Ezor.”

Despite herself, Ezor snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Sure. Ever been to the outer territories?”

“No?”

“Most of the empire’s never been, either.”

Ezor had always been swift on the uptake. In her mind, a picture was beginning to form. Yet she stayed as quiet as a placated child, allowing Zethrid to paint the rest, wanting to hear it as Zethrid would tell it: “And there’s more, way past Ranveig’s camp. At the edge of everything we know. You’ve never been, you’ve never seen,” Zethrid said.

“But I have. And we can survive there, you and me. I swear it.”

>> NOW >>

Against all odds, Ezor wakes up. 

The seams of the ceiling above her gleam faintly purple. Under the breeze from the vents, the microscopic scales on her arm flame hot and then cold in quick succession. She can smell the tangy scent of her own blood beneath field dressings and antibiotics.

Ezor couldn’t have gotten here alone. Laboriously, she turns her aching head to the side.

Zethrid’s magnificent coat of fur has been badly burned, blisters rising in their wake. Her eyes glimmer in the gloom like jewels or dark moons or lava flows or tears. She is a bulwark against the light that casts such a long, cool shadow.

Ezor thinks: You are the only being I’ve ever wanted to need.

With that same, unwavering confidence, Zethrid grins, wide enough to reveal both canines.

“I promised,” she says.


End file.
